


Two Devils Dancing

by AstroGirl



Category: Doctor Who, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6114301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master finds himself stranded in the Enchanted Forest, unable to repair a vital component of his TARDIS. But if it's true that any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology, as well as vice versa, he may be able to find someone who can help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Devils Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> This may not make much sense if you haven't seen OUaT, and it does contain spoilers for the first season. Intimate knowledge of Who is slightly less necessary, and there are no spoilers for that. Also, I wrote this in two pieces two or three years apart, having stalled out on it for a while in the middle. Fortunately, nothing OUaTish in it got jossed in the meantime, but see if you can spot the one line of the Master's that now reads a bit differently than I originally intended it.

The time storm that arises from his latest failed plan -- no, his latest _temporarily unsuccessful experiment_ \-- is more devastating than he could have imagined. It swirls through his laboratory, enveloping the machines he's designed to manipulate this otherwise unremarkable planet's remarkably strong time currents like a howling wind, reducing them to dust, to atoms, to nothing at all, faster than even a Time Lord's senses can follow.

He can feel its tendrils tearing at him, too, trying to undo him, to make him un-happen.

He sprints, panting, for his TARDIS, slams the doors shut behind him, and leans against them, gasping for breath. He can still feel it out there. Even in here, he isn't safe. Not for long. He lunges for the console, frantically pawing at the controls, not caring about his destination, as long as it is far away from here.

Shuddering and groaning, the TARDIS slips into the Vortex. The time storm, surrounding it and clinging to it, follows. On the scanner, the Master can see gross discolorations, distortions, damage to the fabric of reality itself.

Inevitably, something tears. Temporal pressure suddenly released, the storm stalls, begins to dissipate, but the TARDIS is already plummeting into the rip. All around him, reality shimmers and buckles and distorts, and the Master has just enough time to think that when he materializes -- _if_ he materializes -- it will not be in the universe he knows, when the console room lurches around him.

His head hits the floor with a _crack!_ , and everything goes very, very dark.

**

When he comes to, all is quiet. The time rotor has stopped moving, so either he's landed, or something is very badly wrong, indeed. He climbs slowly to his feet, wincing at the stab of pain in his head, and activates the scanner.

He's on a planet. In a forest. He feels a brief, satisfying moment of pride at keeping such a well-maintained, well-disciplined TARDIS. He'd like to see an old rattletrap Type 40 come through something like _that_ and still obey its materialization instructions!

Speaking of his TARDIS... He turns his attention to the console, surveying the damage. It's not nearly as bad as he had feared. There are a great many fused and overloaded circuits, but those are easily reparable. The helmic regulator is burnt out, but he has an entire cupboard full of spares for that. He is beginning to feel quite pleased with how unscathed he's emerged this time, when he makes the very last, pure-formality check... and discovers that the vortex drive unit is now a gently smoking mass of fused-together circuitry. 

It is -- of _course_ \-- very nearly the only part he does not have the resources to fix. He doesn't even have the tools to make the tools: the engineering involved is fantastically delicate, the chemical components requiring an entire industrial complex to synthesize. It is meant to be virtually indestructible, to last for tens of millennia. Losing it is such a fantastically bad stroke of ill luck that he instantly wonders if the Doctor is involved, even if he must admit that he can't quite imagine how.

Without it, he might be able to manage short, spatial hops along this world's surface, but he will not be able to leave, and he will most certainly not be able to return home.

His gloved fist smashes down onto the console, hard enough that his entire arm shudders at the impact. For a moment he stands there, letting the sensation of rage and pain drive the contemptible feelings of helplessness and failure from his mind. Then he forces his hand to unclench, straightens his clothing, and looks at the scanner again. 

It is time, he thinks, to see what this planet has to offer him.

**

His first impression, unfortunately, is not promising.

After an unpleasant hour of pushing his way through dark and tangled forest, he has emerged into open country and found himself by the side of a road, although he is reluctant even to dignify it with the name. In truth, it is little more than a muddy, rutted stretch of dirt winding its way between the forest and a countryside of low, green hills. Far in the distance, atop the tallest of the hills, the Master can make out the spires of a castle, and from its direction a rattling wooden cart drawn by an ill-fed horse clops its way slowly towards him.

Primitive, then. Very primitive, and not just technologically, but socially. The good news, he reflects, is that it should be easy to establish himself as a man of power in such a place, perhaps even to claim rulership of the planet. The bad news is that this may in fact be necessary. As he brushes clinging leaves from the formerly spotless cloth of his jacket, he considers how long it might take to force their technology to a point where it is useful to him. Decades, at the very least. Possibly centuries. And even on this short acquaintance, he is already tired of this world.

He will follow that plan, then, only if no alternatives present themselves. Which they very well might, to a man sufficiently determined to look for them. Appearances, after all, can be deceiving. It is possible that the ruling classes here might possess technology they refuse to share with the populace; it is a common enough pattern. And he might well not be the only alien here. The universe is full of the stranded, the exiles, the power-hungry, and the curious, all of whom might end up in such a place. At least, his own universe is, and he sees no reason why this one should be any different. There are always attractions to setting oneself up as a god or a wizard among the ignorant. He may not have been the first visitor here to think of it. It is, at least, a reasonable avenue of investigation to begin with.

The cart has drawn up alongside him now. The Master raises a hand imperiously, and the ragged peasant at the reins yanks the horse to a stop with a puzzled, deferential expression. "My... lord?" he says, clearly unsure how the Master ought to be addressed.

The Master gives him a smile that might almost be pleasant, were it not for the predatory gleam beneath it. "I require transportation," he says. "Transportation... and information."

The man is able to provide both only in poor quality. But it is a start.

**

Three days later, the Master stands on a dark, quiet hillside, and looks up at the sky. He finds the ritual he is about to perform ridiculous, but his sources have assured him that it should accomplish his purpose. No doubt some form of psychic signal is involved, not that the ignorant peasants of this world have any notion of what that means.

He focuses his gaze on the brightest star in the sky, an otherwise unremarkable blue giant, summons up his not-inconsiderable will... and makes a wish.

Instantly, a tiny humanoid figure materializes before him, hovering on wings that appear far too flimsy to support her unaided. She is wearing a dress that even the Time Lord High Council would find ridiculous, and in the darkness she seems to glow with a faint blue light. She regards him with a dubious expression.

The Master assumes his most ingratiating smile. "You would be the, ah, the Blue Fairy?" he says.

"I am."

He dislikes her, instinctively and immediately, but does not alter his expression. "Excellent. I have need of your services. An important component of my... conveyance... has been damaged. I am told that you might be able to render assistance. " He removes the vortex drive from his pocket and holds it out for her inspection, positioning it carefully beyond her reach, should she suddenly dart forward on those impractical gossamer wings. She looks at it with no appearance of comprehension, and the Master feels a flash of irritation. He should have known this was a waste of time. 

"I can give you a magical powder," she says slowly, "which has the ability to restore function to that which is broken. But..."

Of course. There is always a "but." "Yes?"

"But it will not work," she says, "unless it is used with noble intentions and a pure heart."

He lets out a sharp laugh. "Show me this powder of yours," he says.

From nowhere, a glass vial suddenly appears in her hand. He wonders whether he is meant to act impressed. Instead, he reaches out and snatches it from her. Somewhat to his surprise, she lets him. Surely if her power is anything like what her reputation suggests, she should be capable of preventing him from simply walking off with it.

He inspects the vial closely. It does, indeed, contain a powder. Unsurprisingly, it is blue. "And what is the price?" he says.

"There is no price," she replies. "Except that you use it to do good."

He clenches the vial in his fist and allows his smile to slide into a sneer. "Very well then," he says. "You may go."

For a moment she hovers there, looking at him with an expression that seems equal parts sad and annoyed. Then she shakes her head, and as quickly as she appeared, she is gone.

The Master opens his hand and eagerly uncorks the vial. Carefully, he tips the contents onto the drive unit. As the powder leaves the vial, it shimmers and sparkles, only to fade to dullness as it comes to rest. 

Nothing happens. The fused circuitry remains fused. No lights blink, no power hums. _Useless._ Utterly useless. This so-called magic is clearly nothing more than the worthless product of a fraud who possesses no more than a few parlor tricks meant to deceive the masses. "A pure heart," indeed! A fine excuse for when her pathetic charlatanry fails to work! Not that he truly expected anything else. Nothing worth having comes for free, after all. Growling, he hurls the empty vial into the dirt. 

He has not, of course, given up. He will merely have to look somewhere else.

**

"Oh, you don't want to deal with him," says the largest of the three soldiers. He drains the last of his tankard of ale and gives the Master a pointed look.

The Master gestures to the serving girl to bring them another round. He has long ago learned that a small store of gold can buy a great deal on a primitive world such as this, and a sufficient quantity of free alcohol can loosen human tongues almost anywhere. It is a somewhat distasteful means of gathering information, he reflects as he glances around the table at his unwashed and uncultured drinking companions, but occasionally it is the most efficient. Especially with soldiers, who tend to travel extensively, and to gossip more than any farmwife.

"You don't want to deal with him," the man repeats, shaking his head. "True, if he's even half as powerful as they say, he _can_ grant all your wishes."

"Anything at all, short of raising the dead," the soldier next to him adds, scratching his ill-kept beard. "That's what I've heard."

"Aye," says the first man. "Me too. And I wouldn't even be too sure about that part. But he's dangerous. Gives you want you think you want, then more often than not asks for something more important to you in return. Like your firstborn. Or your soul." His voice drops into a dark, mock-ominous tone on the last two words, and his men laugh.

"I don't believe either of those will be a problem," the Master says, dryly.

"Well," says the bearded man, "It's your funeral. If you really want to see him, all you have to do is say his name a few times. Wherever he is, he'll hear you, they say, and come. 'Course, I'm not sure I ever heard quite what his name is..."

"Nah," says the third soldier, a small, nervous-looking man, "you need a magic spell, that's what I've heard. An actual magic spell. You summon him with it, and then he has to show up and deal with you. 'Cause of how the magic works."

"Well, from what _I've_ heard," the big man drawls as the barmaid sets a fresh drink in front of him, "all you have to do is be desperate enough, and -- _poof_ \-- there he'll be. Me, I hope I'm never that desperate." He eyes the Master skeptically, clearly thinking that a man as apparently well-off as the Master must surely have little to be desperate about.

The Master considers for a moment. He is tired of ridiculous summoning rituals, and exuding an air of desperation into the cosmos at large hardly strikes him as a viable plan. "Yes, yes," he says with a wave of his hand. "Never mind all that." He leans across the table, a tight smile on his lips. "Tell me... Where does this so-called Dark One live?"

**

Rumplestiltskin is sitting at his spinning wheel. He has been spending more and more time here lately. The tangled threads of his plans are at last beginning to weave themselves together into their proper pattern, and the closer events come to their conclusion, the more he finds he needs to clear his head. Spinning soothes his fear, calms his unbearable excitement, lulls him into a sort of trance, until there is nothing in his mind but straw and gold and the turning of the wheel.

Which is why it takes him a moment to register the sound. Only a moment, though; it's too loud and too strange to ignore any longer than that. It sounds like the wheezing of a dying dragon, like the fabric of reality tearing. And it's coming from behind him.

He leaps up from the wheel and whirls around, magic automatically surging through him, ready to use. By the time he's completed the action, the noise has stopped, but as he turns he can see...

_A piece of furniture?_

He blinks in surprise, then again, just to make sure he's not seeing things, but, no, it's still there. An ornate wooden cabinet, nestled there against his wall just as if it's always been there. It fits rather nicely with his décor, too. He spends a second or two wondering whether he'd conjured it up himself and then somehow forgotten it. But, no, he already has more than enough cabinets. He can't imagine why he would have wanted another one.

He can't help feeling a bit miffed now, really. Startling people by materializing things out of thin air is supposed to be _his_ game. Playing pranks on the Dark One really should not be the done thing. And who would dare? Regina would seem to be the obvious suspect, in which case he should probably expect something unpleasant to emerge from the object at any moment. But Regina should _not_ be able to magically transport so much as a speck of dust into his castle. If this is her doing, either the precautions he's set up against her are failing, or else she's gained powers he hasn't taught her. Either possibility is worrying. Except... He steps closer to the object, which continues to look entirely harmless, then reaches his hand out, closes his eyes, and _feels_ it. 

Odd. It doesn't feel like magic. But there is something there, something powerful, but unfamiliar.

He's standing in front of it debating whether he should uncover the mirror and demand answers from Regina or simply snap his fingers and set the thing on fire, when the doors open and a man emerges.

**

The Master switches on the TARDIS scanner and is greeted by a glimpse of an opulent room dominated by a large wooden table. Although it's difficult to make out the details, as his view of the surroundings is blocked by the creature currently scrutinizing the exterior of the TARDIS with a puzzled expression on his face. He appears to be a slightly built humanoid male, his clothing better-tailored and more expensive-looking than that of most of the people the Master has met on this world. His skin is a rough grayish-green with faintly glittering gold highlights, and wide, muddy brown irises make his eyes look disproportionately large. Most likely a different species than the natives the Master has so far encountered, then, although whether he is of alien origin or whether this planet hosts more than one sentient race, he has yet to determine. Not that it matters much, so long as he proves useful.

The Master toggles the screen off again and, arranging a bland smile on his features -- he is, after all, a visitor in this being's home, is he not? -- steps out of the TARDIS.

For a fleeting moment, his host's face takes on a gratifyingly startled expression, but it's gone almost before the Master registers its existence. Equally quickly, a sword appears from nowhere in the being's hand, and the blade is suddenly pressed against the Master's throat without it or its wielder seeming to have moved through any of the space between.

"Hello, dearie!" the creature says in a dangerous, artificially bright tone, as he presses the sword harder against the Master's flesh.

 _Dearie?_ The Master's lip curls slightly at this, but he otherwise remains still. This display of seemingly magical ability, at least, is promising. It appears the confused and rather vague directions given to him by those idiot soldiers were sufficient after all. "You are the being known as 'The Dark One'?" he says evenly.

"Indeed I am," says the Dark One. "But you can call me Rumplestiltskin." The ridiculous name rolls grandiosely off his tongue. The blade shifts against the Master's neck again, biting almost but not quite hard enough to draw blood. "Or," he continues, "You can call me 'No, no, please stop.' Most people who break into my home do eventually."

"I was told," the Master says, his voice tinged with annoyance rather than fear, "that you liked to make deals."

Rumplestiltskin smiles. His teeth are... unpleasant. "Not with thieves, dearie," he says.

"I've stolen nothing from you," the Master says. "And the... unorthodox... nature of my arrival was merely to serve as a demonstration of the powers I have to offer."

The Dark One glances at the TARDIS, his hand unwavering on the sword. "I can conjure up my own cabinets." He smirks.

The Master grits his teeth against a sudden, violent surge of impatience and forces himself to remain calm. "That 'cabinet,'" he says, "is the most scientifically advanced piece of equipment this benighted planet has ever seen, or ever will.”

"Oh, science, hmm? I've seen that. Can't say I was all that impressed." But he pulls the blade from against the Master's neck at last, tossing it casually over his shoulder, where it vanishes in a puff of purple smoke before it hits the floor. "But all right. On the off chance that I'm interested... What is it you want to trade this 'science' of yours for?"

The Master reaches into his tunic, and Rumpelstitlskin wags a finger at him, as if playfully warning him not to try pulling a weapon. His mannerisms, the Master reflects, are becoming remarkably irritating remarkably quickly. He draws the vortex drive out from its hidden pocket and holds it up before him. 

"And that is?" says Rumplestiltskin impatiently.

The Master hesitates. He still had no idea whether this being is a member of a spacefaring race, or simply an ignorant primitive somehow possessed of psionic powers. Not that it matters very much, he decides. Either way, Time Lord technology is bound to be far above his level of understanding. Which makes this whole endeavor most likely useless, but as he has come this far... "The object you currently perceive as a cabinet," he says, "is in fact a TARDIS, a vehicle capable of traveling anywhere in time and space. However, as long as this--" He hefts the device in his hand. "--fails to function, I am unfortunately incapable of leaving this backwards cesspit of a world, let alone returning to my own reality."

The Dark One takes the drive unit from him and turns it around and around in his hands. There is no sign of comprehension or recognition in his eyes. The Master sighs. Clearly, he is wasting his time here.

Or perhaps not. Rumplestiltskin is looking at him now with a peculiar, thoughtful expression. The Master is not certain what this means, but certainly it means _something_. Almost instinctively, he locks his gaze onto Rumplestiltskin's eyes, probing his mind for suggestibility, ready to hypnotize his way in if talk will not do. But as he pushes against the creature's mind, something pushes back, something dark and viscous-feeling and corrupt. The Master winces inadvertently as he breaks the contact.

Rumplestiltskin's brow wrinkles, as if he's not sure what's just happened, but he seems far more interested in the TARDIS. "So, it's some sort of... portal device, this cabinet of yours?" he says. "It allows you to travel between realms?"

"Something like that," the Master says. He forces himself to smile, to shake off the lingering discomfort in his mind.

"And it can transport you anywhere?" The Master can see a gleam of excitement in the Dark One's eyes now. It's almost hidden behind that strange, almost manic exterior, but it is most decidedly there. Perhaps he is contemplating the possibility of using his powers to conquer other worlds. It is a motivation the Master can understand.

"When it's working properly, yes. Anywhere in time and space." 

"Even, say, hypothetically, a world with no magic?" Rumplestiltskin flicks his fingers, as if dismissing this question as unimportant, a mere passing whim.

" _Anywhere_ ," the Master says. This time, he doesn't have to force the smile. "I take it that is of some interest to you?"

"Mmm. Yes, all right, then, Mr...? I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"I am called The Master," says the Master.

Rumplestiltskin gives him an astonished look. "Really? And here people think calling yourself 'The Dark One' is a little grandiose! Well, never mind that. I'll see about fixing your..." He wiggles his fingers again. "...your _gadget_ , and in return, you will take me anywhere I desire to go. Deal?"

"If you are capable of holding up your end of the bargain," the Master says, "then yes."

Rumplestitskin giggles. It's a rather disconcerting sound. "Oh, dearie, I always hold up my end of the bargain!" He clutches the device against his chest. "But it will take some time."

The Master represses an urge to sigh. He is a Time Lord, he reminds himself. He can wait. "Very well." 

When he makes no further move, Rumplestiltskin blinks at him. "I think you misunderstand. When I say, 'it will take some time,' I don't mean, 'I'll just pop upstairs, do a few spells while you wait, and be done in time for supper.' I mean, it will take some time. Days, at least. Could be months."

"I will wait," says the Master.

"What, here? I'm not running an inn, dearie."

The Master smiles tightly. "I have no desire to inconvenience you," he says. "I have my own accommodations." And with that, he steps back to his TARDIS, and closes the door on Rumplestiltskin's face before he can so much as get a good look inside.

On the scanner, he can see the Dark One rattling at the TARDIS door, looking annoyed. The Master is unconcerned. No matter what the creature's powers, breaking into a locked TARDIS is undoubtedly beyond them. 

After a few minutes of rattling and shouting, he stalks off, hopefully to do what he's been commissioned to do, although how he intends to go about it, the Master has no idea.

The irritating fool. When this is all over with, one way or another, the Master will look forward to dealing with him properly. "'Dearie,' indeed!" he mutters, and hits the scanner's off switch harder than he needs to.

**

Rumplestiltskin stands in his laboratory, turning the stranger's device over and over in his hands. It means absolutely nothing to him, simply an unlovely lump of unfamiliar materials, covered with meaningless patterns and even more meaningless protrusions, but it takes no special knowledge to see how it has been melted and singed.

Well. If the problem is that this -- _whatever_ this is -- has lost its functionality, there is a simple, easy solution to that. The waters of Lake Nostos hardly require you to fully understand the nature of what you've lost in order to restore it to you, after all. A clear idea of what you want from the magic is always helpful, of course, but Rumplestiltskin has found that the secret to effectively harnessing the lake's magic lies in the attitude with which you approach it. Which, come to think of it, is also true of the lake itself.

And, being the well-prepared soul that he is, he just happens to have a vial of the lake water here on his shelf. He picks it up and holds it up to the light, contemplating its clarity and considering his next move. 

With a few sprinkled drops, he could subvert three hundred years of planning, could cheat at his own game with the finish line in sight. If the stranger's claims are true, if his portal cabinet can transport him to any place, any time, any realm... Why, he could be there to greet Bae on the other side of his own portal as soon as he arrives, with no time and no trust lost. _If_ the stranger's claims are true. But he thinks they are. The desire to leave this world clings to the man like a bad smell. Most likely he, too, has someone he wishes to get back to.

It's an extremely appealing thought. No curse, no twenty-eight years of limbo, no depending on plans that, brilliant though they may be, still rely on other people freely making the choices he has positioned them to make. 

Of course, there remains the question of whether fate will permit him anything that simple. He's known for three centuries that destiny has other plans for him, and the last time he tried to subvert a prophecy, the results were not exactly desirable. But something feels oddly different now...

He sets the device and the vial down on his work bench and closes his eyes, opening himself up to his sense of the future. It comes in a nausea-inducing kaleidoscope of images, half-glimpsed, translucent possibilities, largely out of context. No difference from the usual, there. Except... Except that the solid images that are always there when he looks for them, the almost-certainties and the events that will work to bring themselves about... Those, when he finds them, no longer seem nearly as solid. They've become wavery, uncertain. And at their center, the only clear and steady image among them all, he can see the Master. Waves of distortion ripple out from him, blurring and altering everything around, as if he has the power to alter the future, to defy fate.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes snap open. He can feel his heart beating rapidly, excitement spreading through him like warmth. Well. It is possible then. It is _entirely_ possible!

He takes a deep breath, and attempts to calm himself. He will, after all, have to follow his existing plans for a little while longer. He lifts his gaze to his shelf of potions, to a slot that stands empty, and with one black-clawed finger, he gently caresses the heart-shaped label carved into the wood of the shelf. It stands ready to hold the potion that will allow him to bring magic with him into the land without it. The potion he is so close to perfecting that all he requires now are the final components. He cannot go until he has that, of course.

Gently, he sets the bottle of lake water back in its place and smiles a giddy, satisfied little smile.

**

There is a great deal to be done inside the Master's TARDIS. Which is just as well, as he will need to pass the time somehow. If he were capable of pushing a lever and skipping forward to a future when whatever work Rumplestiltskin might be doing is complete, he would hardly have needed his assistance in the first place.

He will give it a few days, he decides, then demand a progress report and proceed with threats or promises as the situation appears to merit. He has the feeling that a careful balance of carrot and stick might prove necessary with this one.

In the meantime, he works. Although, vortex unit aside, the TARDIS's major systems are functioning adequately, there are a number of minor systems requiring repair, and even those that appear undamaged should be tested. Unlike some, _he_ is conscientious about maintaining his technology. And the console room itself will need attention; there are scorch marks all the way up to the ceiling, an embarrassing reminder of his lack of success. Besides, he prefers his environment tidy. Order for himself, chaos for his enemies, that is the Master's philosophy.

As he works, he lets his mind drift to the making of plans, the Master's version of the daydreaming that occupies lesser minds. He considers what he will do when he returns to his own reality. Perhaps it is time for another visit to Earth. And although the Master does not generally put a great deal of thought into contingency plans, preferring to place his faith in the possibility of success right up to the last sustainable moment, he considers what he will do should his new ally fail him. Perhaps being master of this world might have some appeal after all. Rumplestiltskin's tricks, performed with such casual, off-hand power, have interested him far more than the so-called fairy's. Perhaps there is something in it he can use. Perhaps--

A movement on the scanner screen, which he has left on to monitor his environment as he works, distracts him from his thoughts. Rumplestiltskin has reappeared from wherever he went off to, and is now settling himself down at some sort of primitive thread-spinning device in the corner. And he-- The Master turns up the sound on the scanner. Is he _giggling_? The Master frowns and reaches for the door control.

**

The spinning wheel turns, smooth and effortless, and behind it, the wheels of Rumplestiltskin's mind do the same. He considers and reconsiders his plans. Simpler plans, now, if all goes well. Just a little tweaking to ensure that Snow White and her charming prince continue along the path that destiny and he have laid out for them, one more simple little bargain to be made with each, and then... _And then..._

Unable to contain himself, Rumplestiltskin lets the wheel spin to a stop and clasps his hands in front of him, laughing with sheer, joyful relief. To think he might finally be _done_ with all this!

A footfall sounds behind him, and Rumplestiltskin turns to see the Master standing behind him. He rolls his eyes. "You again? What do you want?"

The Master eyes the spinning wheel disdainfully and reaches out to run his fingers along the glittering thread of gold that emerges from it. Rumplestiltskin feels a stab of irritation slicing sharply across his happy mood. He doesn't much appreciate people's -- most people's -- attention to his spinning. It's the one trick he does purely for himself, and not for show. But if this uninvited guest of his _is_ going to intrude on his spinning, he could at least have the grace to look impressed. 

The urge arises to turn the man into a toad. Or possibly a snake. That would seem more appropriate somehow. But he stifles the impulse. He will not sabotage his chances of a happy ending by acting on his baser instincts. Not this time.

"Are you done with the task I asked of you so soon?" says the Master, letting the thread drop from his hand.

Rumplestiltskin does _not_ like his tone. He's also having trouble banishing his distracting thoughts in order to follow this conversation. "I'm sorry, what?" 

"My vortex drive unit. Since you have time to engage in this..." He gestures at the wheel. "This amusing hobby, I can only assume you must have completed the necessary repairs." He smiles, an expression of insufferable mock-politeness. "If I could inspect the results?"

"Oh, yes." Rumplestiltskin stands up gracefully, and lets his fingers dance mockingly in front of him as he speaks. "Your gadget. I told you dearie, it'll be done when it's done. I do not renege on deals. And you--" He taps the Master lightly on the chest. "--do _not_ \--" He shakes a finger in the Master's face. "--enter my home and tell me how to spend my time." 

The Master begins to speak, but Rumplestilkskin cuts him off. "This cabinet of yours, he says, gesturing towards it. "Awfully small to be hanging about in all day, isn't it?"

"It is larger on the inside," the Master says, rather pompously, Rumplestiltskin thinks. "I wouldn't expect you to understand such things, of course, but the interior dimensions are--"

Rumplestiltskin waves a hand. "Yes, yes, I understand 'bigger on the inside' perfectly well. Tell me, do you have food in there? Do you have, mmm, facilities?"

The Master blinks for a moment, as if he has to translate this. "I assure you, I have everything I need. With one exception." That gadget again. This fellow is positively _obsessive_.

"Excellent," Rumplestiltskin says. "That means you won't starve, and you won't make a mess." And with a flip of his hand, he sends both the Master and his cabinet off to a room upstairs -- magically locked and warded, of course -- where neither of them will trouble him until he is ready for them. Interestingly, the cabinet does feel larger than it appears, requiring an extra magical push to make it go, but he gets it there in the end.

He turns back to the wheel and resumes his spinning, but he cannot quite recapture the easy, carefree rhythm of a moment ago.

**

The Master looks around at the dusty stone walls of the room he has suddenly materialized in, so drearily similar to those of many other rooms he has been imprisoned in and escaped from in his lives, and shakes his head. It is almost amusing, Rumplestiltskin's belief that he can keep him incarcerated here, and even more so a moment later when his TARDIS appears against the wall behind him, still in its cabinet form.

Well, First things first. The Master strides over to the door, a massive wooden thing with a wrought-iron handle and a gaping keyhole, and attempts to open it. Locked, unsurprisingly, but it always does to check first.

He pulls a simple lockpick from his pocket -- a handy device he's taken to carrying with him after a few experiences in rooms such as this -- and within seconds he can hear the primitive mechanism disengaging with a loud click.

He tugs at the door handle again, already imagining himself returning to Rumplestiltskin's hall and re-inquiring with exaggerated nonchalance about the state of his repairs, thus tacitly winning this round of whatever game the so-called wizard believes they are playing.

Nothing happens. 

"It worked," the Master mutters to himself, his brow furrowing. "I unquestionably heard it." He tries again. Nothing. He double-checks. Unlocked, and a brief period of searching convinces him that there are no other mechanical contrivances, obvious or hidden. Some other force is preventing him from leaving.

Very well. He had hoped not to dematerialize his TARDIS again until the vortex unit was back in place, as short spatial hops, while entirely possible, will create extra wear and tear on the engine in its current state. But needs must.

Inside the TARDIS, he checks their position. As he'd supposed, he has traveled only a short distance within the same building. He sets the coordinates to reappear in the same place downstairs, and throws the dematerialization switch.

The time rotor moves up a few millimeters, stops, moves down a few millimeters, and stops. The console emits a sound like an injured Drashig. The TARDIS goes nowhere at all.

" _What?_ " He tries again, with identical results. "I believe I may have underestimated him." Which, much as he hates being wrong, could be very good news, indeed. If this creature has power sufficient to render a Time Lord and a TARDIS immobile, even temporarily, it seems all the more likely that he can deliver what he promises.

Of course, the Master does not intend to sit here passively waiting for that to happen.

**

It takes him four days.

The first day he spends developing a means to detect the force that keeps him trapped: an elegant hand-held sensor device of his own design. After all, it is difficult to work with that which one cannot see.

He begins by searching for something akin to the psionic energy of the Daemons. It seems a reasonable hypothesis: that, too, is labeled by primitive societies as "magic" or "occult," and its practice often looks to the uninitiated like arcane ritual. Still, he is surprised when he detects something very like it. Even the Time Lords recognize the Daemons as advanced. How is it this backwards world has harnessed a power like theirs, and come to use it with such ease? Perhaps something different in the laws of physical reality here?

The second day he spends attempting to understand the _other_ component in play. He can detect its existence only by its effect on the psionic field, which he has concluded must be used to channel and control it, and on the surrounding matter. But neither he nor his instruments can sense it directly. It appears to be wholly unfamiliar, unique to this universe. Different laws of reality, indeed.

It occurs to him that he should rethink his dismissal of these people's ideas about magic. It may be as good a word as any to describe the phenomenon.

The third and forth days he spends figuring out how to disrupt it. The results are less than he had hoped for. The ideal would be to find a way to control it, to make this strange new force do his bidding, instead of that of the being who established it here. But whatever rules it follows, he cannot make them out. Never mind. The answer to that mystery will come in time.

For now, he connects his device to an electrode on his forehead with a wire, and flips a switch. The machine gathers psionic energy from his own highly gifted mind and concentrates and amplifies it. He turns a knob, and the energy blasts forth in a field so strong that the air shimmers and the stones of the walls around him ripple. On his device's screen, the simple, solid shape of the magic surrounding the room smears and distorts, then scatters apart into harmless, useless specks. Brute force disruption. Inelegant, but efficient. The effects will only last for a few minutes at a time, but that is more than long enough.

The Master opens the door.

**

 _There._ Rumplestiltskin finds it on the Prince's cloak: a single, perfect hair. More carefully than he has ever handled gold, or jewels, or magic, he captures it with his tweezers and studies it through his glass. Such a simple, ordinary thing, to be pregnant with so much power.

Slowly, he conveys the hair towards the bottle he has prepared and infused with catalytic magic, where Snow White's hair already waits, incomplete and inert on its own.

He drops it in, holding his breath, hope and fear warring for dominance inside him for the fraction of a second in which nothing happens. And then: the hairs twine around each other like lovers and the bottle glows with a light as pure as any Rumplestiltskin has ever seen.

 _It is done._

Lesser victories make Rumplestiltskin caper and laugh with glee. This one... This one elicits only the smallest sound of relief and wonder. _It is done_. Everything can now be his. _Everything._ With the magic contained in that tiny vessel, he can work miracles. He can regain what he has lost without losing everything he has gained. He can redeem the one promise he has left unkept, honor the one deal he has broken. (He only agreed to follow the boy, after all. He never said anything about what he might bring with him, or what he might do once their bargain was upheld. And he has learned so many lessons in the intervening centuries. It will be all right. It _will_. He will have everything he needs.)

**

The Master stands in the corridor outside the room that until a moment ago confined him, and adjusts a knob on his device. At once, the image on the screen zooms out and expands, showing him the entirety of Rumplestiltskin's castle, painted in hues of magic.

There are concentrated knots of magic, large and small, which the Master supposes are most likely artifacts, and there are shimmering sheets like the ones enclosing the room behind him. No room is without traces of magic, and many are utterly saturated with it. It's as if the Master has found himself in a world brimming with power. _Made_ of power. He feels his hearts quickening at the sight.

In a tower room at the top of the castle, something flashes, blindingly bright. The Master shields his eyes, and when he looks again, the flash has faded to a single, bright spot. He zooms in on it and sees, immediately next to it, a dense and complex shape, a nexus of magic that moves like a living thing. His host, no doubt, caught in the midst of practicing his craft. Repairing the vortex drive unit, one might hope, but somehow the Master imagines otherwise.

The swirl and flare of magic around Rumplestiltskin's figure is fascinating. Almost hypnotic. The Master zooms in closer, and closer again. On detailed inspection, the being is revealed to be woven in a net of magic, with gossamer threads of power tying him to other places. To enchantments that rely on him for their sustenance, perhaps. 

And in the midst of them... Something else. Some thick, dark cord hidden beneath the glitter and shimmer, more solid and powerful than any of it. Gently spinning a dial, the Master follows it, down and down, beneath the castle, behind field after field of formidable magic. Deep in a hidden place, he finds it. The source from which all the magic around him springs. The focus of the Dark One's power.

If he could possess that...

If he could possess that, he could have _anything_.

 

**

There is only one thing left to do. 

Rumplestiltskin carefully sets the bottle into the place he has prepared for it, and turns to retrieve the Master's gadget from the shelf where it has sat untouched since the man arrived. He turns it over in his hands, looking at it curiously. Such a small thing, to hold the key to one's heart's desire.

From another shelf, he takes the vial of Nostos lake water and unstops it. A precious commodity, this liquid, but he has no need to hoard it now. He tips half the contents of the vial over the device, and, between one blink and the next, it is whole again, its cryptic surfaces shining as if they'd been created just this moment. Sitting there in the palm of his hand, it emits a faint, low hum, a sound that feels like magic, but isn't, and lights blink on in its center, flashing green as summer grass.

Rumplestiltskin grins. He feels... light. Lighter than he has felt in three hundred years.

And then he feels something else: a sickening tug on his soul.

**

The Master has made his way through the labyrinth of the Dark One's castle, along stone corridors, through halls crowded with statuary, past dusty bookshelves, and down spiral staircases. He has passed through vaults within vaults, disrupting magic as he goes. And here, at last, in an unprepossessing wooden box in a hidden compartment in a hidden chamber protected with magic more subtle and powerful than any in the castle, he has found what he is looking for.

He grasps the dagger, lifts it to his face to read the inscription, and smiles. 

**

With a cry of rage and anguish, Rumplestiltskin disappears from his laboratory and appears in what he has believed, until now, to be his safest, deepest hiding place. Before him, the Master's eyes widen slightly in surprise. Clearly he did not expect his moment of triumph to be interrupted. Did not expect his slave to appear, unbidden, before he was summoned.

The Master's mouth begins to open, and Rumplestiltskin can feel the dagger quivering in anticipation, ready to make the Master's word his law. With another shout, he lashes out with all the anger and all the magic in him, and before the Master's lips have formed a single syllable, they, like the rest of him, have turned to stone.

Rumplestiltskin pries the dagger out of the stone fingers, cradles it to his chest for a moment, and replaces it in its box. Then he throws the Master's gadget, with all the force he can summon, at the Master's head. It bounces off the stone of his face and clatters uselessly to the floor, still happily blinking away.

"We had a deal!" Rumplestiltskin shouts. He hits the statue with his fists, again and again, until his knuckles are bloody and bruised. "We! Had! A! _Deal!_ "

But the Master only stands there, powerless to respond.

**

No matter how he tries, the Master's cabinet will not open for him, nor his technology yield up it secrets.

**

In a disused corner of the basement of Mr. Gold's shop, just past the furnace, there are three objects. One is a cabinet of beautiful, ornately carved antique wood, for which there is no key. Atop that sits a device of uncertain function, which gives the impression it may be part of some larger machine. The material it is made of looks like plastic and feels like metal, and is neither. The dust does not cling to it. The lights in its center never stop flashing.

Standing in front of these is a statue, life-sized and lifelike, of a forbidding-looking bearded man. The fingers of one hand are curled in front of him as if he once held something that has now escaped him, and his other hand clasps the handle of a bulky electronic device. The device is attached to his head by a slim stone wire.

Like most of the things that Mr. Gold owns, he does not remember how he acquired these. He simply seems always to have had them. But unlike most of the things he owns, he takes no pride in possessing them. Instead, whenever he looks at them, he feels some inexplicable pressure in his heart, some strange, sourceless combination of anger, guilt, and loss.

So he keeps them here, in a corner he never visits, where he does not have to see them. And he and the Master continue: impotent, empty, and in stasis.


End file.
